Poems

A Dream of Tall Buildings

I had a recurrent dream.
An immigrant, approaching New York,
I'd see its towering skyline and suddenly feel
warm, happy, fulfilled.

Now New York's baroque cliffs have mostly turned
 to glass,
yet that dream, a solid city in the sky,
still inspires me.
My immigrant blood yearns
for the promise of the nineteenth century.

In Memoriam P.B.

You who to make another jealous
once saved my face at a party in London
are dead. And Welsh Mary who, seeing us locked in
  dance,
...